O eggshell dress
dancing with breeze
rhythmic through breast
but a cut above knees

pluck-ed ripe bush
blossoms amongst loom
with nought of a push
steps soft as a tomb

buckwheat born skin
or of harvest at dawn
speaking bathwater gin
and horseshoes on lawn

the crease of a peach
in lips that are purse
and freckles from beach
scatter sand upon earth.

Such a day to sit among redwoods
with trumpeter vine jewelry
and fireplace eyes
whispering kindling between tuna
and marble;
such songs flap of mockings,
that of garment and young:

I think I will stop on the way
home
to watch them sheer
the sheep in the
fields.